The Haunted Baronet, by J. Sheridan Le Fanu

Chapter XII

Marcella Bligh and Judith Wale Keep Watch

After his bottle of port with Sir Bale, the Doctor had gone down again to the room where poor Philip
Feltram lay.

Mrs. Julaper had dried her eyes, and was busy by this time; and two old women were making all their arrangements for
a night-watch by the body, which they had washed, and, as their phrase goes, ‘laid out’ in the humble bed where it had
lain while there was still a hope that a spark sufficient to rekindle the fire of life might remain. These old women
had points of resemblance: they were lean, sallow, and wonderfully wrinkled, and looked each malign and ugly enough for
a witch.

Marcella Bligh’s thin hooked nose was now like the beak of a bird of prey over the face of the drowned man, upon
whose eyelids she was placing penny-pieces, to keep them from opening; and her one eye was fixed on her work, its
sightless companion showing white in its socket, with an ugly leer.

Judith Wale was lifting the pail of hot water with which they had just washed the body. She had long lean arms, a
hunched back, a great sharp chin sunk on her hollow breast, and small eyes restless as a ferret’s; and she clattered
about in great bowls of shoes, old and clouted, that were made for a foot as big as two of hers.

The Doctor knew these two old women, who were often employed in such dismal offices.

“How does Mrs. Bligh? See me with half an eye? Hey — that’s rhyme, isn’t it? — And, Judy lass — why, I thought you
lived nearer the town — here making poor Mr. Feltram’s last toilet. You have helped to dress many a poor fellow for his
last journey. Not a bad notion of drill either — they stand at attention stiff and straight enough in the sentry-box.
Your recruits do you credit, Mrs. Wale.”

The Doctor stood at the foot of the bed to inspect, breathing forth a vapour of very fine old port, his hands in his
pockets, speaking with a lazy thickness, and looking so comfortable and facetious, that Mrs. Julaper would have liked
to turn him out of the room.

But the Doctor was not unkind, only extremely comfortable. He was a good-natured fellow, and had thought and care
for the living, but not a great deal of sentiment for the dead, whom he had looked in the face too often to be much
disturbed by the spectacle.

“You’ll have to keep that bandage on. You should be sharp; you should know all about it, girl, by this time, and not
let those muscles stiffen. I need not tell you the mouth shuts as easily as this snuff-box, if you only take it in
time. — I suppose, Mrs. Julaper, you’ll send to Jos Fringer for the poor fellow’s outfit. Fringer is a very proper man
— there ain’t a properer und-aker in England. I always re-mmend Fringer — in Church-street in Golden Friars. You know
Fringer, I daresay.”

“I can’t say, sir, I’m sure. That will be as Sir Bale may please to direct,” answered Mrs. Julaper.

“You’ve got him very straight — straighter than I thought you could; but the large joints were not so stiff. A very
little longer wait, and you’d hardly have got him into his coffin. He’ll want a vr-r-ry long one, poor lad. Short cake
is life, ma’am. Sad thing this. They’ll open their eyes, I promise you, down in the town. ’Twill be cool enough, I’d
shay, affre all th-thunr-thunnle, you know. I think I’ll take a nip, Mrs. Jool-fr, if you wouldn’t mine makin’ me out a
thimmle-ful bran-band-bran-rand-andy, eh, Mishs Joolfr?”

And the Doctor took a chair by the fire; and Mrs. Julaper, with a dubious conscience and dry hospitality, procured
the brandy-flask and wine-glass, and helped the physician in a thin hesitating stream, which left him ample opportunity
to cry “Hold — enough!” had he been so minded. But that able physician had no confidence, it would seem, in any dose
under a bumper, which he sipped with commendation, and then fell asleep with the firelight on his face — to
tender-hearted Mrs. Julaper’s disgust — and snored with a sensual disregard of the solemnity of his situation; until
with a profound nod, or rather dive, toward the fire, he awoke, got up and shook his ears with a kind of start, and
standing with his back to the fire, asked for his muffler and horse; and so took his leave also of the weird sisters,
who were still pottering about the body, with croak and whisper, and nod and ogle. He took his leave also of good Mrs.
Julaper, who was completing arrangements with teapot and kettle, spiced elderberry wine, and other comforts, to support
them through their proposed vigil. And finally, in a sort of way, he took his leave of the body, with a long
business-like stare, from the foot of the bed, with his short hands stuffed into his pockets. And so, to Mrs. Julaper’s
relief, this unseemly doctor, speaking thickly, departed.

And now, the Doctor being gone, and all things prepared for the ‘wake’ to be observed by withered Mrs. Bligh of the
one eye, and yellow Mrs. Wale of the crooked back, the house grew gradually still. The thunder had by this time died
into the solid boom of distant battle, and the fury of the gale had subsided to the long sobbing wail that is charged
with so eerie a melancholy. Within all was stirless, and the two old women, each a ‘Mrs.’ by courtesy, who had not much
to thank Nature or the world for, sad and cynical, and in a sort outcasts told off by fortune to these sad and grizzly
services, sat themselves down by the fire, each perhaps feeling unusually at home in the other’s society; and in this
soured and forlorn comfort, trimming their fire, quickening the song of the kettle to a boil, and waxing polite and
chatty; each treating the other with that deprecatory and formal courtesy which invites a return in kind, and both
growing strangely happy in this little world of their own, in the unusual and momentary sense of an importance and
consideration which were delightful.

The old still-room of Mardykes Hall is an oblong room wainscoted. From the door you look its full length to the wide
stone-shafted Tudor window at the other end. At your left is the ponderous mantelpiece, supported by two spiral stone
pillars; and close to the door at the right was the bed in which the two crones had just stretched poor Philip Feltram,
who lay as still as an uncoloured wax-work, with a heavy penny-piece on each eye, and a bandage under his jaw, making
his mouth look stern. And the two old ladies over their tea by the fire conversed agreeably, compared their rheumatisms
and other ailments wordily, and talked of old times, and early recollections, and of sick-beds they had attended, and
corpses that “you would not know, so pined and windered” were they; and others so fresh and canny, you’d say the dead
had never looked so bonny in life.

Then they began to talk of people who grew tall in their coffins, of others who had been buried alive, and of others
who walked after death. Stories as true as holy writ.

“Neea whaar sooa far south, Mrs. Wale, ma’am; but ma father was off times down thar cuttin’ peat.”

“Ah, then ye’ll not a kenned farmer Dykes that lived by the Lin-tree Scaur. ‘Tweer I that laid him out, poor aad
fellow, and a dow man he was when aught went cross wi’ him; and he cursed and sweared, twad gar ye dodder to hear him.
They said he was a hard man wi’ some folk; but he kep a good house, and liked to see plenty, and many a time when I was
swaimous about my food, he’d clap t’ meat on ma plate, and mak’ me eat ma fill. Na, na — there was good as well as bad
in farmer Dykes. It was a year after he deed, and Tom Ettles was walking home, down by the Birken Stoop one night, and
not a soul nigh, when he sees a big ball, as high as his knee, whirlin’ and spangin’ away before him on the road. What
it wer he could not think; but he never consayted there was a freet or a bo thereaway; so he kep near it, watching
every spang and turn it took, till it ran into the gripe by the roadside. There was a gravel pit just there, and Tom
Ettles wished to take another gliff at it before he went on. But when he keeked into the pit, what should he see but a
man attoppa a horse that could not get up or on: and says he, ‘I think ye be at a dead-lift there, gaffer.’ And wi’ the
word, up looks the man, and who sud it be but farmer Dykes himsel; and Tom Ettles saw him plain eneugh, and kenned the
horse too for Black Captain, the farmer’s aad beast, that broke his leg and was shot two years and more before the
farmer died. ‘Ay,’ says farmer Dykes, lookin’ very bad; ‘forsett-and-backsett, ye’ll tak me oot, Tom Ettles, and clap
ye doun behint me quick, or I’ll claw ho’d o’ thee.’ Tom felt his hair risin’ stiff on his heed, and his tongue so fast
to the roof o’ his mouth he could scarce get oot a word; but says he, ‘If Black Jack can’t do it o’ noo, he’ll ne’er
do’t and carry double.’ ‘I ken my ain business best,’ says Dykes. ‘If ye gar me gie ye a look, ’twill gie ye the
creepin’s while ye live; so git ye doun, Tom;’ and with that the dobby lifts its neaf, and Tom saw there was a red
light round horse and man, like the glow of a peat fire. And says Tom, ‘In the name o’ God, ye’ll let me pass;’ and
with the word the gooast draws itsel’ doun, all a-creaked, like a man wi’ a sudden pain; and Tom Ettles took to his
heels more deed than alive.”

They had approached their heads, and the story had sunk to that mysterious murmur that thrills the listener, when in
the brief silence that followed they heard a low odd laugh near the door.

In that direction each lady looked aghast, and saw Feltram sitting straight up in the bed, with the white bandage in
his hand, and as it seemed, for one foot was below the coverlet, near the floor, about to glide forth.

Mrs. Bligh, uttering a hideous shriek, clutched Mrs. Wale, and Mrs. Wale, with a scream as dreadful, gripped Mrs.
Bligh; and quite forgetting their somewhat formal politeness, they reeled and tugged, wrestling towards the window,
each struggling to place her companion between her and the ‘dobby,’ and both uniting in a direful peal of yells.

This was the uproar which had startled Sir Bale from his dream, and was now startling the servants from theirs.